Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [61]
Annie did not know how she got through that day. At four o’clock she rushed down Aysgarth’s Hill to the corner shop and bought a copy of the Evening Post late edition, hoping for better news, but it said things were worse, the whole city was alight. Tented refugee camps were being set up in San Francisco’s parks and across the bay in Oakland, where many had escaped to on the ferries. They said the citizens were fleeing from the flames, that bound-foot Chinese women unable to walk were being carried through the streets, that terrified children were running by their parents’ sides clutching their toys while their elders struggled with dogs and cats and caged birds, pictures and pianos—whatever they treasured most they lugged with them. “Though what will become of them or their possessions no one knows.”
Annie walked slowly back up the hill. She thought of all the nights she had knelt by her bed and prayed for proof of Josh’s innocence so that he might return to her, and for his health and happiness far away in San Francisco, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt what she had to do. She trudged slowly up the hill, her eyes on the toes of her shiny black boots, thinking of her plan.
That night after his supper when Frank Aysgarth had sunk into his chair, lit his pipe and was staring silently into the flames as usual, she said, “Dad, I need to talk to you. There is something I have to do.”
“Hmmph,” he growled, not even looking at her.
“I have to go away, Dad,” she said loudly. His head swiveled and he took the pipe from his mouth, astonished. “Away? Are y’daft in the head or summat? Don’t talk rubbish, Annie.” That settled, he puffed on his pipe again and stared back into the flames.
“I mean it, Dad,” she persisted. “I have to go find Josh. You see, Dad, he went to San Francisco and I just have to know whether he’s alive or dead. And if he’s dead, then—then I’ll see he’s buried properly, in consecrated ground.”
“They’ll never bury a murderer in consecrated ground!” Frank roared. His face had turned beet red and he puffed angrily on his pipe, filling the kitchen with the powerful scent of his tobacco.
“Josh is innocent,” she retorted. “Sammy Morris had him run off so quick he never even had a chance to defend himself. And all the police knew was Mrs. Morris’s story that Sammy had found him standing over the woman’s body.”
She looked at her father, but he just puffed on his pipe, staring silently into the fire like always. Suddenly she saw a tear slide down his cheek and lose itself in his bristly gray moustache. Then another and another …
“Oh, Dad,” she said helplessly, not knowing how to comfort him because she couldn’t just go and throw her arms around him like she would have with Josh. “Don’t take on so. Your youngest son’s no murderer, I’ll guarantee that. No matter what Sally Morris says or doesn’t say.”
“He finished me, Annie,” he said, ignoring the tears pouring down his face. “Our Josh finished me off. A man has a right to look to the future through his sons. And he was my favorite, you know that, though I tried never to show it, I allus treated ’em all the same. I never expected anything like this in our family. Never.”
Annie looked away from him, she could not bear to see his crumpled face and his shaking hands and the unstoppable tears that must have been damned up in him since Josh left. Frank Aysgarth was allowing himself the luxury of emotion for the first time in his life and she knew it was the best thing that could happen to him. After a while she said, “Dad, I’m going to San Francisco to find him. I’m going to clear his name—our name. You’ll not go to your grave thinking your son a murderer. I’m asking you for two things,